Poetry

almost two

When the uppermost octaves ring like bells
When glissandi each undulate unbroken
Waltz time dream
While minstrels strum polyrhythmic adieus
Whether we keep time or not
Whether the chords sound the first beat or the last
When our eyes are too glossy for contemplation
When our fingers too numb for scintillation
When it’s almost two and you don’t recall
When or why you came
What you were going to say
Where celtic sambas meet welsh rumbas
Where the depth of the forty seventh string sinks basso
Where I look up from beneath the sea to remember
Where there is air
paddling against pedals that
refuse to remove memories
of my native land
While toes dream of petit pas pavane
We visit carnaval de venice
We fall asleep in the serenade nodding
our adieus pas a demains
Whether we wake remains on the lanes of limerick.

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